Once More
by cappie
Summary: Two years after the events at the Opera Populaire, Christine finds herself returning to a place she swore she would never return and to a man she still secretly loved. Now, in the darkness of the night, she must make her choice.
1. scene 1

Author's Notes: The Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me in any way whatsoever. I tread precariously over the genius of other's.

Formatting: Sadly, does not make it particularly easy to make paragraph breaks, or to allude to them. All that will allow of me is a simple '-' to show a scene change. Hopefully, they will be more abiding in the future.

**Once More**

_Chapter 1_

The Opera House was just as she remembered it from a year ago. The chandelier crash singed the backstage area, it was true; but for the most part it seemed as though nothing had happened. It was as though the mysterious Phantom of the Opera had never existed.

Christine Daaé was sure that M. Andre and M. Firmin had no qualm with these ideas, along with the rest of the stagehands.

Taking her purse in hand, the dainty woman embarked from the carriage that had picked her up at the Lyon station and made her way across the glossy cobblestones, fresh with rain. She was returning now to the last place she had ever thought she would perform in again.

Yet here she was, scheduled to sing at the Opera Populaire; just two years after she had sworn to herself never to return.

Unused to walking in through the main entrance, she hesitated at the golden doors, freshly painted in a new coat after Paris' harsh winters. But, pushing any fears out her mind as best she could, she crossed the marble threshold into a world she had come to know so well. The figures and statues still remained, immaculate as always; the floors polished so that her reflection shone down upon them, and the air was scented dimly of lemon oil and candle wax. It was an Opera House like any others she had performed at. And yet it was not.

"Ah! Mlle. Daaé! It seems you have returned to us." An overly-sweet voice called across from above, and directing her eyes towards the sweep of stairs before her, she found herself gazing at M. Andre. A slightly dumpier M. Andre, but him nonetheless.

"It seems I have." Christine replied cordially, hoping he wouldn't bring up—

"When was the last time I saw you? It was the night of—,"

"Of Don Juan, yes." The young girl found herself replying tersely.

"Ah, yes, well. That was certainly…," But his thoughts died, and the two walked up the stairs in silence for a moment longer, before, in his usual way, he continued, "Come up into my office so I can inform you on the nights we have you scheduled to perform. The company you work with now only stays three months in each location, so we must be sure to have as many performances as possible, now mustn't we?"

That was the way things were now. She was a famous Opera star, a Prima Donna like Carlotta, although perhaps a more well-received. Two years of hard work had finally paid off when she had been hired as the premier soprano in the renowned traveling tour. She had left Rome not a few days ago, and after Paris came London. Her life was singing, as it had been destined.

Christine said nothing as they climbed the stairs, but subconsciously held her purse with a strong grip—almost expecting to hear him whisper into her ears…

_Christine…_

"Are you alright Mlle. Daaé? You look as though you have seen a ghost." M. Andre chuckled, turning to face her.

"Ah…yes, I mean, no. I'm fine." She insisted, realizing that she was beginning to sweat. Certainly Erik couldn't have stayed, could he? The mob had destroyed his home, his work—everything. What more was there left for him?

Then why did she feel as though she was being watched?

"Christine? Christine, is that you?" a female voice to her left questioned.

Her dark blue eyes darted in that direction, thankful for small favors that it was not the deep, powerful voice of the man she remembered too well.

"Meg?" Christine cried, rushing towards her, tears of happiness pricking her eyes. The two embraced in a warm hug and the young ballet dancer explained, "I heard you were coming to Paris with the Opera Company, but I didn't even know you would come here! I didn't ever dream you would come…"

Meg stopped herself short, her cheeks turning pink, "That is to say, I thought would have chosen another Opera House."

"Another Opera house?" raged M. Andre, standing forgotten at the entrance to his office door, "Why go to another Opera House when this is the finest one in all Paris?" _Especially when we just reupholstered all the seats too…! _

"Of course," The dancer agreed, too quickly, her flush deepening, looking down at her attire.

"In any case, Mlle. Giry, shouldn't you be off practicing, or dancing somewhere? We do have a show tonight, you know." The manager dismissed rather briskly, opening the door to his office and walking inside without a second glance towards the dancer.

Giving an apologetic smile, Christine gave a parting hug and promised that as soon as she was able she would come and visit her and her mother.

_It's turning out to be just like it was, _the brunette thought to herself, wishing the pain and regret and remorse would fade away. Raoul, Erik, her father. So many regrets.

Here she was returning to the Opera House, returning lost, lonely, weary, and hopeless. The only difference proved to be that in her past she thought she could have survived without her Angel of Music. Now, it seemed, she could not. She was the last one to admit this, however. She was the star of the Opera world, a force to be reckoned with in any way possible. Alone but strong.

"Mlle. Daaé?" M. Andre questioned, seating himself at his plush leather chair, "Is something troubling you?"

"No, I'm fine. Just a little hungry." She admitted truthfully, shuffling into the room, her skirts swishing behind her.

"Ah, I understand completely. Thank goodness all that is required are a few signatures."

But a contract, and what it entailed, weren't just a few lines of texts. As Christine learned, they were to be much more.

-

Christine sank into the plush velvet chair, silently groaning. She felt as though she hadn't had a moments rest ever since she had been picked up at the station. The carriage ride had been bearable, but she had been too nervous to really relax during the half an hour it had taken for them to arrive. M. Andre had then made her sign a contract and quickly bustled her about the stage with it's new and improved amenities—namely the new reupholstering of the chairs, and the extra fortified chandelier that glistened above.

"Is that the same one?" she had questioned as they swept across the stage.

"What?" M. Andre questioned, somewhat off guard, "Oh, no no of course not. It would have been too much to repair—the original has been sent into the vaults to be dealt at a later time when crystal is not terribly expensive."

Nodding at this statement, glad to find that something besides the color of the seats had changed, she had been bustled back stage and into the company of Madame Giry. Their embrace had been short, but heartfelt, with the disdainful eye of M. Andre watching them.

The manager had left her then, and the elder Giry had showed her to old dressing room. Shivers crept calling up Christine's spines and with every sound, with every whisper, with every hush, she could have sworn she heard her name echoing in the stale air of backstage.

_Christine…_

"Mlle. Daaé?" Madame Giry had questioned, a cup of tea outstretched in her dainty if not elegant hands.

"Ah, thank you," Christine gushed, reaching out instinctively. She needed a cup of tea. It wasn't healthy to be this nervous, this on edge.

The ballet instructor said nothing, but turned towards her old dressing bureau and proceeded to make her own cup. As she did so, the twenty-year-old girl looked about the room, feeling very exposed, even though there were walls on all four sides and not a window in the room.

The room itself was practically the same—although it looked as though a fresh coat of wallpaper had been placed, hiding the smoke and charred pattern of roses that she had grown to both love and hate. She had learned such twisted emotions for many things in the Opera house.

"So," The older woman questioned in her usual briskness that Christine remembered so well, "What happened?"

Christine, who had finally ventured to take a sip of the potent blend, chocked on the tea and stammered, "W-What do you mean, Madame Giry?"

"I think you know very well what I mean, Mademoiselle. The last time any of us at the Opera house heard of you, you were off to marry the young Viscount de Chagny. And here you return to us a Prima Donna of the Opera world, with no ring about your finger."

Wishing she could just disappear, Christine moved deeper into the seat. She couldn't hide the truth from Madame Giry, of all people—but why did she have to tell her here? In her old dressing room? With….the mirror but a few feet away.

"Is he…gone?" Christine questioned at last, nervousness, regret, and apprehension filled in her voice.

"Who? You mean le fantôme?" Madame Giry questioned, placing down her tea and crossing her legs, her dark eyes looking at her across the room full of truth.

"Yes…the…Phantom."

"I would surmise so. I hear nothing of him, there are no accidents, I presume that the Phantom has disappeared." _Though the man remains, _Giry finished absently. She did not wish to scare the young singer away if the truth were to be revealed. It would all happen in good time. No doubt Erik would make certain of that.

At hearing these words, a strange chord was struck inside Christine. She felt like she was deflating. So, he was gone. He had left. There had been nothing more to stay for. She would never see him again.

But she had made her choice long before, hadn't she?

Hadn't she?

Well, if he was gone, there was no point in hiding her past. He would never know of what had happened to her—of how foolish she had been. Of the wrong decisions she had allowed and made.

Clearing her throat, Christine Daaé began, but not before casting one hurried glance towards her old mirror where she would have sworn she saw a flicker of movement.

_Wishful thinking will get you nowhere, Christine. _

-

The house had been magnificent: even more beautiful and spectacular as she could have imagined. To her the innocent countryside Chateau seemed something fit for a king and a queen. The floors had been so heavily polished that the mild sunlight of early spring had dazzled her eyes. Everywhere was sparkling china, silver, crystals; and art, sumptuous paintings of the Chateau's previous owners, vistas of foreign countries, and scenes of the hunt.

"It's all right, Christine, they will be sure to love you. After all," Raoul had whispered, tilting her head towards his and planting kiss onto her brow, "How could they not? You are indeed an angel."

At those words she had mentally stiffened, though she did not let such emotion reach her face. The word 'angel' would forever bring memories of a dark underground lair filled with the glow of candles to her mind.

"Oh, Raoul, are you sure? I mean—," She was nervous. Christine only vaguely remembered Raoul's parents and was uneasy of being introduced to him. The fact that she was merely a common ballet dancer did not fail to escape her mind. Whether she had a good voice or not, she was still part of the chorus; she was not the spotlight. Anyone involved in the arts was taboo territory the day and age and Raoul came from a noble family…

"How could I not be sure? They will love you." He insisted, bringing her close and planting a trail of wet kisses along her neck. "They must, for both our sakes, so we can be married as soon as possible."

She shivered in happiness beneath his touch and wrapped her arms around him, trying to calm her nerves.

"Raoul—not here, what if somebody sees?"

Her fiancée had pulled away from her then, a look of wry humor flashing across his handsome face, "No, _he _won't see, will he? He's gone. He will never bother us again."

She said nothing, but tried to smile, unaware of a person approaching from behind him.

"Monsieur? The lady of the house would wish to see you now." The newly arrived butler rang out in a dull voice, attempting not to look at their spectacle.

"Ah, yes." Raoul fumbled, adjusting his cravat, "Wait here, my darling, until I send for you…"

His voice had suddenly seemed full of nervousness and anticipation then, though Christine did not notice. She meekly nodded and took her seat near a window, looking over the properly hedged and trimmed gardens.

The first fifteen minutes had been utter silence and Christine's nerves had calmed, enjoying the open feel of the countryside from her view. There was not the city in sight, just trees; fresh trees sprouting new growth with waves of deep red tulips growing in their shade.

But then the voices broke through the wall.

"That is not what we meant by new and different, Raoul!" It was a voice of an older female. No doubt, Christine thought, gripping the chair; his mother.

"She comes from a fine respectable family—you know of her father, Charles—,"

"Some Violin maker's daughter is not what we had in mind for you when you went to Paris!" The woman's voice again, growing harsher, more cold. "You know what situation we are in Raoul—we need new money—,"

"And what of Christine then? I love her, do you expect me to throw her away!"

There had been utter silence. Complete and total silence. Even after Christine had moved from her chair to press her ear against the wall, she had heard nothing. There had been the murmur of voices, but she could not distinguish any words.

A second later the door calmly opened and she jumped back away from the wall, flushed and apprehensive. She did not look up, she could not, but as the steps neared closer to her the young girl found it hard to remain so docile.

Tilting her face upwards she looked into the elderly face of what she presumed to be Raoul's mother.

"So, you are Christine Daaé?" The voice questioned. The tone was not full of vengeance, or hatred, or loathing; merely exhaustion. "I am so very sorry. This was not what any of us had in mind. It is not your fault, my dear. However….things like this do happen…"

Willing for no tears to prick her eyes, she questioned in as hardened a voice as she could managed, "What do you mean?"

"Have no fear, you will be nicely accommodated for your _losses_—financially, of course." The woman continued, taking her arm and guiding her in the opposite direction of the chateau, across a great expanse of white marble flecked in gold that clicked beneath her heals.

"My losses?" Christine raged, breaking her hand free from the woman in a snap, "What are you saying?"

The woman sighed, and took off her glasses and slowly polished them as though she had all the time in the world. Finally, at length, she replied, "It is fairly obvious. He had two choices—a life with you, and a life with money. We have raised our boy well, rich, and lavishly. Even though he may love you…well, he had never known a world of financial instability."

"And so, he chose money?" Christine whispered, dangerously low, finding anger and humiliation overpowering sorrow that all too soon she would know intimately.

The Viscountess de Chagny did not ever reply, but instead she withdrew from the folds of her lavish satin ensemble a check book and slowly began to write an amount.

"Be a wise girl and accept the money. I understand how you feel, and what you must be going through. However…"

The check waved in front of her.

That was the last thing Christine remembered before she awoke in a comfortable hotel room once again in Paris.

-

"And so, he chose money." Christine concluded feeling tired with a renewed sense of sorrow.

Madame Giry was silent in quasi-darkness of the room, but at length she replied, "You have exhausted yourself, Mlle. Daaé. I believe it is time you retired to your hotel."

Christine made no resistance but instead drained the remainder of her tea, brushed her eyes daintily with a handkerchief, and was escorted out of the room. Before she left her dressing room, a place that would—in weeks to come—be the only savior from her hectic life as an operatic singer, she left one last glance onto the mirror.

_Oh, what a fool I have been. What a terrible fool. _

-

A few moments later, Madame Giry returned to Christine's dressing room under the pretence of gathering the china to be sent off to be cleaned by a stage hand. Yet, as she collected the porcelain, she said in a very normal voice, "Come out, Erik. I know you are here."

Silence.

"Do not try to deceive me."

Finally, just as the Madame was gathering the sugar bowl and placing it on the silver tray, there was a whisper of fabric and a figure appeared from the direction of the mirror. His entrance had been so silent and secretive that had Madame Giry not been expecting it, she would have screamed in surprise.

"Do you think she saw me?" His voice questioned, controlled and calm. Too calm. Obviously he was attempting to sedate his temper.

"No. I do not. She presumes you for dead." She stated, taking the last bit of tea from her cup she quietly left the room, leaving Erik alone in a room he had once known intimately.

The cloaked figure said nothing but only stared at the indentation her small body had made against the plush chair.

So, it seemed, Christine had returned to him at last.

He could not believe it! Christine had returned to him. Erik ran his hands nervously through his hair as he stormed through the underground tunnels without a place to go. His stride was long and heavy, his face—which he now kept unmasked most of the times, was covered in a thin layer of sweat.

How could this be! Had she come back just to torture his existence with the possibilities of hope? It wasn't fair, damn it. Why did salt have to be added to his tender wound!

There was no hope as far as Christine was concerned; now, if only his heart would listen to his head. Ah, that would be an accomplishment indeed, he thought with a scowl.

Stooping into a back entrance to his lair, he hissed in bitter agony. Christine had been beautiful—more beautiful, if possible, as he remembered her. She had grown, blossomed, in ways that not even his wildest fantasies could create. If that was even possible…for his dreams were of the most detailed nature, at times.

And yet she hung before him, this glistening ornament, still untouched, still innocent, naïve, everything he had cherished her for—Christine hung before him, taunting and breath-taking in her glory. She was the forbidden fruit, one he had promised himself never to pursue again.

Bitterly, he shoved aside some sheets of parchment atop a desk and smashed down into a seat, continuing to run his madly through his hair.

_She is here. Inside the Opera house! You can smell her scent, you can still remember her lips, you sick bastard. It has been two years, she was nearly forgotten! _

Glaring absently at his lair, his blue eyes seeing everything and nothing, he buried his head in his hands and attempted to steady his hoarse breathing as he thought back to those moments as he watched her tearful account in her old dressing room. A terrible sense of nostalgia had overtaken him as he watched Christine; her bosom heaving in emotion, her cheeks flushed with the beginning of tears, the sorrow in her form.

Yes, he remembered them all. There was nothing he could forget when it came to his Angel. Her betrayal least of all.

Erik's eyes snapped open in an instant—she had left him, yes. Of _course_, she had made her choice and look where it had landed her? So, the Viscount de Chagny had chosen money over her? Well, her torture was hardly as great as that he had suffered for his entire life. That girl did not know the meaning of suffering as it was.

And yet, his breath hitched as his eyes peered across the glossy lake, remembering the events from two years ago as they played before his eyes—how magnificently she had arisen from the ashes of her past life. How gloriously she had returned from that setback with that pampered bastard.

Christine had done better than he could have ever hoped, ever imagined for her. His Angel of Music had surpassed even his standards, and for this, and this alone, was she to be commended.

Her idiotic decisions when it came to matters of the heart, her regrets, her sorrow; they were none of his concern now.

All that mattered, Erik mused softly to himself as he gazed down at his porcelain mask, was that she had returned and perhaps finally things could be amended.

It was a very dangerous line to choose to walk, but heaven or hell, what did it matter?


	2. scene 2

An: I do not pretend to own, or be the creative masters of any of these characters.

**Chapter 2**

Christine collapsed exhausted onto her chez lounge and placed her hands over her eyes and she let out a fatigued groan. She was so utterly tired. Her throat hurt from singing throughout the day in practice for Le Nozze de Figaro. Being the lead soprano in this Opera was no easy task. Susanna was in nearly every scene—and although secretly Christine relished the attention and the beautiful Arias she sang with the Countess, she could certainly do without all the rehearsals.

Yet, the day had finally ended and as soon as she wished she could leave. Yet, the lounge was so very comfortable, and she was so very tired—she quite forgot herself and in a matter of minutes had fallen quite contentedly asleep, dreaming of the forgotten words she had just practiced for the last three hours.

_To meet in the garden…_

When she awoke from a dreamless slumber, her room was dark and cold. Obviously, she remained one of the few people back stage. Although Madame Giry would always be present with the _Corps de Ballet _in their dormitories, the immediate vicinity backstage was most likely deserted.

Sitting up slowly in the semi-darkness, finding that her eyes became adjusted to it quite quickly, she stifled a yawn, feeling oddly at ease in the indistinct conditions.

Turning the flame of one of her lamps so that the room had more light by which to see by, she washed her face and made her way towards her dressing cabinet to relieve herself of the peasant's clothes which she had been fitted for earlier in the morn.

Pausing at her bureau, she stayed very still. She could have sworn she heard a swish of fabric a moment ago—but no, that could not be, she insisted. No one was about. Erik was gone. There was nothing to fear. There was nothing to hope for.

_Then why do you shiver, Christine? _Her mind raced to herself.

_But it is nothing! I am just frightening myself! _

Yet she did not remain convinced.

The glimmer of her startled reflection caught her eye and she watched herself in the mirror for a moment. Had the mob found the portal from her dressing chamber that terrible night? There was no way to open the mirror from the outside, only the person who wished the mirror to be moved could do so…

And yet…moving closer in the semi darkness, a thin crack of the truest black met her eyes along the left side. Somehow, the mirror had been opened.

Stifling any fear in her heart, Christine slowly pried open the glass, the familiar wetness of the underworld meeting her face. It was a scent she could never forget, even amongst the Provincial countryside.

Wrapping a cloak about her shoulders, Christine descended with only one place in mind—she had to prove to herself and her conscious that Erik had left and would never return. She had to obliterate any hope within her heart; she had to live with her regrets. As soon as she saw his destroyed home, as soon as she saw the broken glass, dented metal, then she could finally allow herself to admit that he was gone.

And that, in the end, she had made the wrong decision. She had placed her faith in ideals, in the promise of words of one man—when she should have trusted the actions of another.

"If you never forgave me," Christine whispered to herself, "I would understand."

Even in the pitch black the way was clear. She could have walked this labyrinth in her sleep. And when she reached the underground lake fed by the waters of the Seine River, she shivered in anticipation. The boat still remained, yes, and the pole—although half submerged in water—was there as well.

So, she set precariously across the mists, hoping to find the glow of candles, and the familiar figure hunched over the organ, his hands scribbling madly with the genius of angels'.

-

It was fortunate indeed, Erik thought idly through the back stairways, now forgotten to most stagehands—that he had chosen to spend the good part of the day in the attic of the Opera House. Over the past two years, this place had become a place of relative refuge, only used to store costumes and random bits of small and lightweight scenery. When his presence had still been feared the place had not been checked as frequently as his lair.

It was certainly not as comfortable, but for the first time in a very long time, he enjoyed the sun's beams as they splashed through a dusty window that looked out onto the Paris skyline.

During the late hours of his night was when he returned to his lair—so that he could work in the silence of his underworld, unafraid of any visitors. In addition, in the attic, he could practically hear everything that went on down bellow, including the angelic chords of Christine as she sung into one glorious Aria after another.

His sleep that day had been a mixture of tortured images of his past mingled with the calming presence of that clear and rich soprano.

Moving down further into his underworld, Erik licked his lips and relished the thought of beginning to work on his music. It had been months since he was this inspired to work!

His steps quickened. He had reached the underworld, the dark and wet underworld where he was truly safe.

But he paused. Something was not right.

Someone was here with him.

-

"Erik?" The pretty—if not tired—soprano voice called out into the pitch darkness. There were no candles. There were no chords in the night. There was nothing. Just the darkness.

_So, he is gone…truly gone…_

In the weak light from manhole covers above a dim light glistened off of the misty lake. What once used to be a genius's domain were just shadowy shapes shrouded in nighttime.

Yes, his music of the night had ended that terrible day.

And for the first time since she had returned to the Opera house, she willed herself to cry. Christine wished she could just collapse into the ground with heart wrenching sobs, she wished she could cry herself to sleep—she wished there would be nothing more of her, just the impressions of her tears against the ground.

But no tears came. She could find none to give. The sorrow and regret were too great.

"Oh, Erik…," She sighed to herself, leaning against the cold stone that surrounded her. Looking back at it now, her heart had seemed as remote and cold as the domain she now found herself in. She had taken the easy route of life when it came to Raoul. He had offered her everything that would make her safe, but not happy, in the end.

She did not deny she hadn't loved Raoul. She had. He had loved her as well.

But not enough.

And now Erik was gone, and once again she was alone in the world. Neither Little Lotte nor the Angel of Music. Merely Christine Daaé, the girl who would play Susanna in Le Nozze De Figaro.

Making her way back towards the boat, tripping over the hems of her skirt, she hardly noticed the rustle of fabric behind her—for her sorrow was too great.

-

Why had she come? What had she wished to find? Did the silly girl hope to return to the past—wish to play him for the fool as she had done so before? Had she expected to see him hunched by his organ? Well, a few minutes later, and she might have seen that familiar sight. It had been to his great fortune that he was uncharacteristically late.

Erik did not want to reveal his presence. Not yet. Not quite yet.

Yet in the dim light of his underground cavern he had become keenly aware of their isolation. He could have pulled her into the darkness, tasted her fruit, and finally succumbed to that dark passion which overpowered his senses with every lucid movement. He could have finally been free of her with his face buried within her arms. And yet, he fooled no one. He was eternally bound to this silly girl. The desire, ah, that was but many of the flavors that had since left an odd taste in his mouth.

_No, there is much more than just that. _

When she had whispered his name he had nearly choked in amazement and slight disgust. Was that regret he had heard? Ah, surely not. It was a jest.

_How could she feel regret for me? _

Erik snorted silently at the thought and rolled his eyes.

Moments, terribly long moments later, her graceful figure had entered into the boat. The light gleamed off her pale and flawless skin, contrasting in utter perfection with the dark luscious curls of her hair….ah, bliss, if there was ever such a thing; it was this retreating figure before him.

The madness had nearly overtaken him then and he stepped out of his protective shadows—willing to call after her, willing for him to know he was alive, waiting for her as he always had been. And yet, the cowardice that filled his heart overflowed and almost as quickly as he had emerged, he shrunk back, a silent sob filling his throat in desperation.

_No, _he whispered silently to himself, inner turmoil quelling within his breast, _Not yet…not yet…._

-

-**Opening night of Le Nozze de Figaro-**

There were two short knocks and before Christine knew it the jolly voices of her manager's filled the air.

"Ah, you are indeed a shining star!" M. Firmin erupted as he rushed towards Christine, a jovial smile sprouting across his face, "It has been five months together before we sold out the entire house!"

André, following in his footsteps, chuckled to himself as he laced Christine about the arm and escorted her to the front of the stage where she was to begin the first scene. The two were in exceedingly good moods and promised her that after the performance they would toast champagne in her honor. Her show—no doubt—would be superb.

As they bustled her through the rush of backstage, staff flying about in mild panic, the chorus humming to themselves in a corner, Firmin admitted, still tittering in glee, "Yes, even _box five _was sold! Can you believe that? It hasn't sold for two years together—,"

"—Ah, yes, ever since you left the company, rumors that whoever buys that box will be murdered. It has become a legend, you could say—,"

"Yes, but Mme. Daaé, your voice is no match for such a silly story. All of Paris knows of you now, and they will pay any price in which to hear your glory."

Speaking at last, flushed in happiness and apprehension at what was expected of her, she insisted, "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please, do not flatter me. It was you who offered the invitation to the Opera Company; I am but a part of this ensemble."

The two manager's opened their mouths to interrupt, but quickly Christine continued, disentangling herself from their arms, "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go fix my makeup before there is the first call."

Exchanging two looks, the two men decided to best leave Opera up to their Opera star, and quietly retired to the lobby where they greeted the visiting dignitaries of those who were expecting a large profit. And receive a large profit they did, for the show was in a word, immaculate and without comparison. It was a performance of legend—except for perhaps the strange oddity that went practically unnoticed by most members of the audience.

This oddity happened in Act III, in the infamous letter scene, of course, with the Countess dictating to Christine, who played the young servant girl Susanna.

-

Seating herself down into the chair and withdrawing a piece of yellow parchment, Christine began her introduction to the perhaps the most famous Aria that the master Mozart had written. Pen in hand, she listened to the Countess in her lilting tones, pretending to write and pause. At a few intermissions she nodded in agreement and responded in turn, her voice soaring above the chandelier, through the rafters, and towards the stars.

Yet, subconsciously throughout the course of the song, she found her eyes drawn ever upward towards the best seat in the house. This was, of course, box five. During the entirety of the Opera she had practically forgotten about the existence of box five, yet now that she was still and allowed what could be called "a moment of rest" her thoughts fell back, once again, onto the past and the last work she had performed upon this stage.

_Don Juan…and Raoul sitting above, right there, in box five…I can remember meeting his eyes…_

Christine could not help it, but she was extraordinarily curious as to who had deigned to buy the seat—even at the price of the rumors; only two years old and relatively fresh in the world of the stage. Yet, as her blue eyes reached heaven-ward, hardly noticing that she was singing at all, a look of slight confusion crossed her face. It was hidden quickly by professionalism.

Yet no mask would escape the fact that box five remained _empty._

_There is no one there…_

A familiar shiver ran down her spine. Was it her imagination, or did she feel the presence of a heavy gaze upon her form?

_But the box is empty! No one is there, Christine!_

Had she heard M. André and M. Firmin correctly? Box five _had _been bought, hadn't it? Then why did it now remain empty during the most famous part of the entire Opera? Had they left early? Decided not to attend?

Yet each rationalization seemed more contrary than the first.

Freeing such thoughts from her mind as quickly as she could, Christine gracefully bent her head down and pretended to write, following the Countess's lyrics in perfect syncopation. Without question Christine buried herself in the song, forgetting any fear, any perplexities within her mind.

And yet, the presence remained. It was only until the end of the Aria did she fall prey to her desires and titled her head once more to that familiar box, framed with the golden figures of the angels and the flutter of invisible wings.

A tremble of red velvet and from behind this ripple of movement the shape of a porcelain mask greeted her blue eyes.

Christine's voice faltered on the very last note and she stood up with such force she nearly stumbled over the prop desk, however, any mistake in her voice or actions was overwhelmed with a sea of applause. It crashed against her, so much so that she was forced to tear her eyes away from the face, the face she knew all too well…

When she looked again, he was gone.


	3. scene 3

An: I do not attempt to say that Phantom of the Opera by M. Leroux is mine. Nor do I make such assumptions.

-

**Chapter 3**

The sweeping scarlet curtain came down for the second time that night. As the young girl had expected, and the managers had hoped, she had been forced to reappear after their initial farewell to the audience. Large bouquets of lilies, iris, and roses found their way into her arms as she smiled blearily up into the audience, remembering a similar performance she had given not so long ago.

Yet, those thoughts were only fleeting in her mind as the noise surrounded her. The deafening shouts of "Encore! Encore!" "Bravo!" drowned out everything else.

And yet, the whisper of a memory ran through her head, surrounded by the spotlights of this dizzying world.

_Brava…Brava…Bravissima…_

Shivering at the thought, Christine gave one final bow, her arms burdened with the heavenly flowers, and her face in a gracious smile. She stepped back cautiously and slowly the curtain fell.

A moment later, she gathered her skirts and whisked her way through the muddle of backstage hands and other performers. She hardly heard the compliments, the applause, saw the smiles—to her it was all a blur of movement.

Christine, still loaded with flowers, knew she had to get to her room. She had left her mirror open slightly so that the tunnels to Erik would not be completely shut off to her. There were other entrances and exits that she had known of, yes—but none so convenient.

Unlocking the door, nearly dropping the key in her haste, she casually threw the flowers onto her dressing cabinet and moved instinctively towards the mirror. She _had _seen him this night. Right above her, in box five. She _knew _she had! He hadn't been dead. No, no, he could not be—

"You did well this evening, Mlle. Daaé," a voice behind her greeted.

It was a voice Christine would recognize in an instant: dark, deep, terse and controlled. It sent a wave of shock up her spine, and turning towards the recesses of her room, she could hardly control a gasp of astonishment and surprise. There, seated in the shadows of her room, reclined most comfortably in a plush leather chair, sat Erik. In his black gloved hands rested a snifter, filled half-way with amber colored liquid. Its scent gave it away as brandy.

Yet she could find no words as she stared across the room. What? Why? How?

"Are you surprised to see me here? Or, perhaps you find it rude for not knocking?" He continued his voice just as potent as it had always been. It was a drug Christine would take willingly as its wave's hung about her unnerved body. "Yes, a gentleman would knock, wouldn't he?" He paused, taking a quick and distinct swing of the alcohol so quickly that his movement seemed almost a blur.

"But we have already established I am no gentleman."

In one fluid motion of the night he was standing, in his familiar shades of darkness—his blue eyes sparkling like sapphires from behind the guise of his mask.

As Erik studied the girl, wishing she would say something, he found that much to his great dismay the similar longing and desire was igniting within the depths of his blackened heart. Yes, she stood before him now—flushed with the success of her dazzling show and gorgeous. Erik also knew that instead of indulging in whatever success had come of _Le Nozze, _she had returned straightaway to her dressing room.

No doubt in search of him.

What his feet were doing, Erik could not be quite sure—yet he realized that with each passing second he was slowly making his way across the length of the room towards his angel.

"You're alive." She whispered at last, her voice laced with an emotion Erik could not quite discern. Regret? Anger? Resentment? Hope…?

"It would appear so, ma chere. It would appear so." Erik chuckled to himself, deciding to keep the space which separated the two of them as far as possible for the time being. He could not trust himself around her.

A second shot of brandy it was! Perhaps not one of his best choices, but it kept him busy.

"I only come to pay my respects to our new _prima donna,_"

"I am not a prima donna. I am…" her, which had originally started out as strong and full of the fire Erik had but glimpsed, died and the emotion was lost. Finally, at length, her head bowed in what appeared to be disappointment, "I am but a girl with a good voice."

Erik nearly choked as he brought the glass towards his mouth. How could she say that? His angel with the voice that heaven itself was jealous of!

"No. You are more than that." He sipped the brandy cautiously at time, wishing to make it last longer, "_Trust _me."

There was a long terse silence. Erik could practically feel his bodily urges taking over—even though they were a respective five feet away! How could he endure such sweet torture? She was so beautiful, even after the exhaustion of such a performance, with the stage makeup still upon her face, and her hair slightly messed. It was beautiful. Glorious. Framed by the candlelight Erik could have sworn he saw a halo about her.

He looked away and sighed.

"Why are you here? Why did you return? Madame Giry said you were dead."

Still not facing her, but a chuckle once more rising from within the depths of his throat, he whispered deviously, "Did she? I do believe you have your facts mistaken, Mme. Daaé. She said _le_ fantôme was dead—did she not? No, the man, Erik—ah, yes, he is very much alive."

"B-but your lair! I went there. There was nothing but darkness!" As Erik was _very _much aware. Ah, he knew such darkness, and intimately at that.

Christine moved towards him now, her eyes frantic and pleading as though she truly wished to understand the reason behind his secrecy. As though she _cared _about him—as though she had worried and secretly felt remorse!

_As though indeed, _Erik scoffed.

"There has _always _been nothing but darkness, _Christine." _He spoke her name for the first time. To his senses it was electric and he dug his hands into the surface of the dresser. It had not been his intention, yet it rolled off his tongue. It felt odd and so right to say it; it was her name.

When Erik said _Christine_, she stiffened. "Do you know then?"

"I know many things, but to what in particular do you inquire towards?"

"Raoul." The girl stated simply, nearly without remorse, regret, or hatred. It was simply a name to her—but to Erik, it was the foulest creature on the earth to ever walk the planet. The Viscount; the simpering doting man who had wrenched his beloved away from under his protective wings and then tossed her, heartlessly, into the gutters of reality.

"Yes….and I am sorry." _Despite my loathing of the man, I would have never wished such harm to come to you, Christine…_

Erik motioned to depart at this final comment, leaving the half consumed bottle of brandy resting complacently upon her bureau. No doubt Christine would find some means at which to dispose of the alcohol. He could feel it's affects upon his body already and it had become quite an effort not to look at Christine without imagining compromising positions to surface to his mind. He could stand no more of this torture. He was mad already, this he knew, but for how much longer he could practice such _ardent _self control he could not say.

"No! Wait! Don't go!" Her voice echoed in the stillness of the room.

"I must go. I will not succumb to such torture again by your hand." Brushing her pleas aside, Erik sighed, taking his cape about him and striding quickly towards the mirror. Its reflective surface seemed miles away and he hurried silent steps.

"I was wrong!" She pleaded, begged, whispered as she held fleetingly onto his arm—feeling the tenseness beneath his muscles, feeling the coiled strength within him. What her actions were, why she was doing this, she could say not. Yet, the fear that she felt was overpowered by the dread that she might never seen him again. The hope that she had forced herself to cover had reignited, and suddenly she found herself right back where she had started. A choice had to be made in regards to Erik. But this choice had to be more certain than the last. There could be no going back.

"No, you were not wrong, Mlle. Daaé. You made your choice. Had his family accepted you, I have no doubt you would have been very happy."

Erik delivered these words in blatant revulsion, his hatred seeping into the words and dripping off their meaning. His eyes had narrowed now and he began to shake in bitter anger and disgust.

"No, _Erik, _don't go, please—," the girl could find nothing to say, nothing that would make him stay.

He was right of course, as he had always been. No doubt, she would have been happy living the rest of her life with Raoul in a life of leisure with no cares in the world. Yet that was the Christine of two years ago, content with ideas of motherhood and a docile life. That was the Christine with a smothered soul and a voice hidden behind false ambitions.

Christine moved closer and cautiously took both his gloved hand in her own and squeezed them gently—trying to convey both her desire for him, but her indecision as well. Beneath her touch he shook and quivered, but he did nothing. He did not move. He did not look at her. Erik remained frozen, as though such an intimate touch had killed his heart.

The heat that emanated from her body was like lecherous vines, drawing him closer and closer. The paleness of her skin hummed gently in his ear. But he could not give in to her advances, to her dangerous flirtation. Erik stepped back quite suddenly, bringing both her hands to the level of his chest and grabbing them in dangerous tightness.

Erik's voice was wet and hot against her chin, full of anger and torture that only Lucifer could know, "Why do you continually torture me, Christine?"

He lowered her hands, and released them, replacing the void as he rested them _very _gently—almost too gently—against her waist, closing his eyes.

His voice had become thick with emotion, and swallowing he whispered in the dimness of the room, "Do not think I would not wish to touch you?"

His hands subconsciously moved to trace the elegant line of her cheekbone, and her blue eyes met his own and he could have sworn that both heaven and hell could be found with the darkness of her. Yet he continued, his hands motioning downwards to her shoulders. He clenched them, tightly, with such force that she cried out in pain. "To feel you? But I will not be made a fool of twice by the likes of you again!"

Yet Christine's reply was not what he had expected. The girl from two years ago might have reasoned with him, pleaded with him perhaps. Yet, despite her name being the same—somehow, she had altered. Her pretty blue eyes sparkled, with tears yes—but not those of compassion, or even pity. Pity had been the thing Erik had expected—not disdain, not the flare of her dormant temper he had but briefly witnessed once before.

"By the likes of me? You mock me for choosing such happiness? Do you think I would have relished the idea of living below the Paris streets? Being cut off by society had I chosen you?"

She broke away from her gaze and looked sadly and almost regretfully at his gloved hands. A sigh broke out, and she continued, "You sang you would go with me anywhere—but truly, Erik, would you have gone? Would you have forsaken your life such as it is for me?"

The emotion in her words stunned him, and ever slowly he found his warms winding about her, possessively, holding her close as though she threatened to fly away. Traveling up the length of her body, his hands slowly found their way to her uncovered shoulder where he held her, tightly, bitterly and angrily.

How could he have doubted her words? What was there he had not promised—would not do for her? And still, she did not believe. It was infuriating. Did his word mean _nothing_ to the girl? Was it as shallow and useless as a looking glass? When he spoke again, anger flowed forth from his mouth and his lips were tight in a jealous rage. He did not raise his voice, but it was dark and painfully silent, his words.

"You know I would have. You know I would _do_—would have done anything for you. Why is it that now _you_ do not trust my word, when that of our good Monsieur lead you blindly into downfall?"

He would have faced the cruel and terrible world as it was. He had done it before and—

But these ideas were useless and petty! Anger coursing through his body once again, Erik pushed her angrily away, sending her stumbling towards her dresser. He was tired of this game. This game of cat and mouse, where the roles seemed to him interchangeable. She tempted him. He tempted her. But _nothing _was ever resolved. Nothing.

"You mock me for my choice. You hate me because of it—,"

Interrupting her, Erik snapped bitterly, "Do you truly wish to argue with me, Mlle. Daaé? I assure you your efforts will be fruitless."

In stealthy steps he began to move towards her petite figure that was plastered against the surface of her furniture. Her eyes were wide in anger, or fear, or some other emotion he couldn't really classify. But it didn't matter. Ah, she was opening up her beautiful mouth now. No doubt she had something to say. And Erik would humor her, for he, despite appearances and mannerisms was _quite _obliging when it came to his angel.

Her voice was taught with ragged emotion, and the tears fell freely now, traveling down the length of her fair cheeks, "I felt regret and remorse towards you every day I was with Raoul—I don't deny that I might have loved you—,"

But he would not listen to this! To tell him _now _that she _had _loved him was pure and utter cruelty on her part. The anger which had been, for the past ten minutes or so, raging within his body finally over boiled and leaping towards her in an angry sweep he grabbed her elegant hands and raised them high above her head. She could not move now. The girl was trapped in his arms, her legs forced against the cabinet by the weight of his body. As he spoke he realized full well how close he was to her, how she trembled beneath his touch, how he could feel _everything _about her in this moment, in this perfect instance.

"Might? _Might? _You use such a word for such an emotion? How could you _might_have loved me?"

The words that she spoke were truthful then and they seemed to crackle in the silence of the room, "The same way you might have hated me as well."

Christine shivered beneath his touch, aware of where his hands had begun roving. She did not mind his dark embrace, no, quite the contrary, it was heavenly. Nevertheless, with both her hands above her head, and Erik's hand holding them in place while the other began to track down the length of her chest—it was not the way she would have wished. But her mind had stopped functioning now for Erik had pressed his lips against her neck and suddenly, she could find no other words.

"And do you deny that if Monsieur de Chagny was to enter this room—do you not deny you would fly to his arms?" Erik whispered this sentence, hardly able to formulate it, as his hands dropped and began to slowly encircle the girl's body. Her skin was so soft, so beautiful.

"I would not," Christine shivered, closing her eyes and pushing her chest slightly forward slightly, "I have learned my lesson when it comes to love."

Lessons? Were there such things when it came to an emotion such as this? Erik very much doubted it. Should there be such lessons, he should have mastered them already. He should not have been in her room, caressing her body, and falling deeper in love with this frigid woman than he had ever been before. Yet the irony in the words caused his actions to stop and pulling her tangle of limbs away from him, he looked down at her, smirking in amusement.

"Have you?" The smirk deepened and an eyebrow rose in mockery, "How amusing! And only after two years you have become a master of the emotion? I must say I am impressed. I am nothing but astonishment this evening."

Astonishment at his own foolishness of what he was about to do. But do it he did. And after that moment there was no turning back. For either of them.

His lips were upon her in a second, crashing down upon her with such force and passion that it took a moment for Christine to realize what was happening. There was such emotion behind his embrace; deathly and pleading. And, as he dug deeper within the depths of her body, Christine slowly found herself reacting to him, aware for the first time of the heat that now emanated off his cloaked form, of the smell of his cologne, and the softness of his lips as they now pressed down harshly against her own, threatening to tear her apart with emotion.

Just as she had become accustomed to his touch, of his embrace, of his dark, sweet wetness, he ripped his body off of hers and whispered with such a thick voice it was hardly recognizable, "And what of _that _Christine? Is that the taste of love or perhaps just obsession? Does such a kiss meet to your expectations of what love is?"

His expression was one of pure and utter torture as he waited for her answer. Erik's chest was heaving with emotion, and he held onto the side of her body, his breath pent within him. He hung there, so precariously, awaiting her answer that could either choose to save or condemn him.

"No, it does not. For the love was not returned in such a kiss." Christine replied with a tremble, wishing his lips were upon her once more.

She looked up at him, and watched as his blue eyes turned glossy, as though he was about to cry. Yet if tears fell from his blue eyes, she never saw, for once again she was thrown against the furniture as Erik motioned to leave, his movements quick, hurried, and full of panic.

But this wasn't what she had meant! No, not at all! Christine ran after him, tripping over the layers in her costuming, but following after him nonetheless. He was nearly through the mirror now, and a second later, he would be gone from her forever. She could not allow it. Not this time. She had chosen wrong in the beginning, but she was one to learn from mistakes. "Erik!" She pleaded, nearly tackling his retreating figure in the dark, "No, please, wait!"

As soon as she touched his figure, he went as stiff as a board. He did not look at her, he did not face her. He became part of the darkness in that instance.

"You misunderstand…" She pleaded, attempting to look at his face, attempting to convey the emotions that she had meant.

In the obscurity of the night, his voice rang out cold, cruel, and unemotional, "What is there to misunderstand? To you I am but a _monster."_

Then there was silence. The party beyond Christine's door was but a memory, the darkness of his lair, just a dream. It was the two in the black of the night, and a choice.

The crinkle of fabric as Christine stepped close to the tall sturdy figure of the man she had spurned. Moving closer, so that they were now inches apart, she slowly, ever slowly, reached up to his face and stroked the visible side with such tenderness that it's description is beyond words. "No. To me you are something I was not ready for, something I could not see—,"

She stopped herself short, and slowly, careful of Erik's erratic temper and condition, she reached up and slowly undid the porcelain mask of his face, revealing the disfiguration beneath it. Yet, even in the darkness there was light enough to see the bumps and mounds which formed like rolling hills. Christine, standing upon her tip-toes, learned forward against his body and kissed his disfigured cheek, tasting the salt from his shed tears.

Her lips traveled down the side of his face, and finally, in the dim, she found his lips. Erik was still unmoving beneath her, even as she wrapped herself against his form, pressing her chest into his own, and with her own will finding the dark wetness within his mouth. Slowly, she urged the man from out of his shell, and at length Erik found himself reacting to her advances. The sweetness that she carried within her and the heated passion flared dangerously to the edge and quickly he pulled away.

He would not submit, not if she remained silent as to her choice. Oh, but _how_ he hoped…

"Have you made your choice?"

Christine nodded in the darkness, and reaching upwards once again, she found the sweet darkness to which her heart had been longing in utter silence. Yes, she had made her choice.

-fin-


End file.
